Page 37 of Almost a Bride
“You’re damp,” he murmured, his voice—his mouth—too close to her ear.
“You said that already.” Good Lord, her voice shook, just as her hands would shake if she didn’t keep them clasped together. The heat of his body scorched her.
She knew she should shove him away, but she had promised herself that she would discover his secrets, understand his loyalties. Making him angry wouldn’t accomplish that, so she stood still, biting her lip, telling herself that she only allowed this contact between them for her country’s sake.
There was a silent moment of hesitation that seemed to stretch on forever. She could feel her wet skirts brush her legs, as if her skin was suddenly too sensitive. The weight of him against her body was almost pleasurable.
Why did she feel like this? She knew too well how uncomfortable her husband’s weight had been, how he’d often taken her to bed even when she was sick. Men thought only of themselves and their pleasure, and wives could only submit. Philip had never shown her kindness after she’d been disowned by her parents, never even kissed her. Was that why she was fascinated with Thornton’s mouth?
With a shudder of self-disgust, she stepped away from him, and he lowered himself to sit on the pallet.
Spencer watched Roselyn busy herself with the supper preparations. Not since he was a boy trying to sneak sweets had he spent so much time watching someone cook. She didn’t act as if it were a chore she was forced to do. She did it like she did everything else, with a calm serenity that annoyed him.
Naturally she could be serene, he thought bitterly. She didn’t have an executioner waiting for her arrival. For too many hours each day, he contemplated the bleak future that awaited him, what his Spanish heritage had brought him to—no wonder he was so easily distracted by Roselyn.
Well, he’d done as much as he could today to fluster her, and he thought it was working. He took great pleasure in upsetting this balance she’d found for herself. He only touched her because he wanted her to know how it felt to be rejected in the end; he ignored the darker, disturbing thoughts in the back of his mind.
Later that evening, he hopped over to the back window and sat on the floor, listening to the small party she made for the Heywood brothers in the courtyard. Though she laughed freely at their jokes, he began to realize that she still held part of herself in reserve, that it wasn’t just him she was reticent with.
~oOo~
As Roselyn cleaned up the supper plates, Thornton moved about the room, hopping from window to window, peering out the shutters. He even repeatedly practiced using his arms to push himself off the floor until his face shone with perspiration. She wished he would sit still, or sleep as he used to.
Finally, he stood looking out over the courtyard for a long enough time that she began to relax.
“Where do you bathe?” he asked suddenly. “In the bake house?”
Her fingers froze as she set a plate in the cupboard. In her old life she would have never discussed such an intimate subject with a man.
“I bathe in a half barrel,” she said, keeping her back to him, waiting for his laughter.
“Really?” He sounded only intrigued.
“In the summer I leave it outside, where draining it is easier. In the winter I keep it in the bake house.”
She briskly finished putting away the dishes, intending to next mend clothing for the village brewer, who’d just had her fourth child. If she ignored Thornton long enough, maybe he wouldn’t say—
“I’d like a bath.”
She closed her eyes and tried not to groan. “I’ll get you hot water and towels, then go up to the loft to give you privacy.” This was their usual routine—surely, he didn’t need it changed now.
“No, I’ll take one outside. Can you help me remove the splint?”
“You won’t be able to move well in the barrel—I barely fit.”
“Ah well,” he said with a grin and a shrug, “you’ll just have to scrub my back, won’t you?”
She forced herself not to glare at him, remembering that she had to be nice, to get him to relax and tell her his secrets.
But she knew he wouldn’t fit in that barrel, and she had no intention of helping him.
As Roselyn knelt at his feet to untie the splint, she felt a slow anger begin to build inside her. When she arose, she saw the faintest smirk on Thornton’s face as he pulled the shirt over his head. Her gaze swept over his chest. He looked healthier already, the bones of his ribs no longer prominent; dark hair was scattered across his chest and narrowed in a line down his stomach.
“May I have a towel?” he asked.
She hated the amusement in his voice, hated the fact that she had to accept it. She found him linens and soft soap, then helped him to the courtyard. The lantern she carried glimmered in the darkness, guiding their way. She set it on the half wall near the bake house, while he hopped to the barrel and looked in.
“I guess you weren’t exaggerating about the tight fit,” he said dryly.
